And then literature has seed to sow as well as
water for the seed sown. Letty's foolish words about the hands
that wrote poetry showed a shadow of respect for poetry--except,
indeed, the girl had been but making game of him, which he was
far from ready to believe, and for which, he said to himself, her
face was at the time much too earnest, and her hands much too
busy; he must find out whether she had any instincts, any
predilections, in the matter of poetry!
Thus pondering, he forgot all about his projected ride, and,
going up to the study he had contrived for himself in the
rambling roof of the ancient house, began looking along the backs
of his books, in search of some suggestion of how to approach
Letty; his glance fell on a beautifully bound volume of verse--a
selection of English lyrics, made with tolerable judgment--which
he had bought to give, but the very color of which, every time
his eye flitting along the book-shelves caught it, threw a faint
sickness over his heart, preluding the memory of old pain and
loss:
"It may as well serve some one," he said, and, taking it down,
carried it with him to the saddle-room.
Letty was not there, and the perfect order of the place somehow
made him feel she had been gone some time. He went in search of
her; she might be in the dairy.
That was the very picture of an old-fashioned English dairy--
green-shadowy, dark, dank, and cool--floored with great irregular
slabs, mostly of green serpentine, polished into smooth hollows
by the feet of generations of mistresses and dairy-maids.
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